


La Saint-Sylvestre

by Oilan



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 18:23:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9136027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oilan/pseuds/Oilan
Summary: It is New Year's Eve 1829, and while Courfeyrac has successfully convinced his friends to attend a party with him, almost nothing else goes as planned.





	

December 31, 1829.

“You _did_ tell Enjolras to meet us here on time, didn’t you? It’s an important night, after all!” As he, Combeferre, and Feuilly were crowded around his floor-length mirror, there was hardly room for Courfeyrac to turn and speak to his friends face-to-face. Instead he opted to tug his cravat into an elaborate knot. “He’s not going to abandon us, is he?”

“He has that meeting with Renard and the Cougourde, but had promised to meet us here afterwards,” said Feuilly. “He won’t forget.”

“I certainly hope not.” A line appeared between Courfeyrac’s brows as he studied his reflection, before picking apart the knot at his throat and starting again. “You know la Saint-Sylvestre is the only time Enjolras can be persuaded to go out. Possibly he views the coming of the new year symbolically; I do not know. But if he wants to get dressed here with us, he’d better hurry! I’ll not be late. I was very lucky in finding this party, and it is sure to be an excellent time—despite its location.” Satisfied with his cravat, Courfeyrac smoothed out his new waistcoat, a cream-colored piece, embroidered with intricate red flowers. He had been so pleased to find the fabric, and had had it expertly tailored especially for the occasion.

“I am certain he’s on his way,” said Feuilly, standing still as Combeferre helped him adjust the waistcoat he had borrowed. Though Feuilly was only slightly taller than Combeferre, and about the same around the chest, the waist of the vest was plainly too large for him. Combeferre cast it a sour look in the mirror before attempting to tighten the back.

Catching his expression, Feuilly said hastily, “I think it’s fine. Thank you, Combeferre.”

Combeferre shrugged and turned to flop down on the sofa. His own clothes were wrinkled, his waistcoat not nearly as fine as the one he had lent Feuilly, but he seemed in no mood to fix them.

“Oh, cheer up!” said Courfeyrac earnestly. “Tonight will be fun—you will see! Perhaps we can even find you someone new to romance. A worthy replacement for your medical student—what’s-his-name.”

“Marceau Guérin,” muttered Combeferre, who had been thrown over by said medical student the previous week.

Though Combeferre made a habit of keeping quiet about his personal life, he had come to dinner with Courfeyrac and Enjolras a few days ago, dejected and almost wretched, and let slip every detail of what had transpired. The trouble began and ended with Marceau’s mother. She had visited her son, met Combeferre only once, and from that meeting had somehow begun to suspect her son’s predilections. A widow with a precarious income, she had threatened to cut her son off, and end his expensive education at the medical school, if he did not marry. Naturally, both Marceau and Combeferre had reacted badly to this news, and what should have been merely a discussion of what they themselves should do had instead turned into a full-blown argument in the space of an evening.

Nearly two years of happiness was at an end. While Courfeyrac could not blame Combeferre for his ill mood, he did hope that an evening out with friends would lift Combeferre’s spirits.

Before any more could be said on the subject, however, there came a sharp rap at the door, and Enjolras stepped inside quietly. There was something rather different about him this evening, however. Catching sight of him in the mirror, Courfeyrac turned around to gape at him. “You- you look-"

“You did say to dress up,” said Enjolras, crossing the room to sit on the sofa beside Combeferre.

Indeed, Enjolras was dressed far better than any of them had ever seen him, wearing a dark blue frock coat, layered waistcoats with a shining strip of red beneath, white gloves, and new tan trousers. Courfeyrac was torn between pride at finally persuading Enjolras to set aside his usual drab clothing and dismay at almost certainly being out-shined. The only aspect wanting in Enjolras’ ensemble was his hat, which was the one he usually wore, and could have done with being replaced.

The greater good of fashion outweighed Courfeyrac’s self-interest; he strode over to his wardrobe to fetch Enjolras a better top hat. “ _Almost_ perfect, dear fellow; here you are. You can’t wear a new coat with an old hat.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows as he swapped his own hat for Courfeyrac’s, but all he said was: “Well, then? Are we ready to leave?”

 

* * *

 

“The print on that waistcoat seems oddly familiar,” murmured Jean Prouvaire. He was lying on Bahorel’s floor, and his words were directed at the ceiling. “Yes, yes. Very familiar. I’m certain I’ve seen it somewhere before. In reality. Perhaps in a dream…” He paused to take a long drag on his pipe, tendrils of opium smoke spiraling upwards.

In front of the mirror, Bahorel was busy smoothing his lapels; he smirked. “You don’t say? Well, perhaps you’ll soon remember.”

“Those red flowers are especially beautiful, like those you might find in the fields of- of- euh.” The proper metaphor remained elusive, and Prouvaire opted to blow a puff of smoke away from his face instead, tipping his head back to get a better view of Bahorel, albeit from upside down. “Why are you getting so dressed up?”

Bahorel turned to his wardrobe to pick out a frock coat. “My fine friend, you are forgetting one thing after another today. Shall I blame _you_ or whatever you have in that pipe? Don’t you remember how Courfeyrac sighed and begged for us all to attend that New Year’s Eve party together? Every one of us has better things to do, no doubt, than attend some soirée thrown by a little _bourgeois_ _café_ , but Courfeyrac’s persistence pays off, I suppose. The group at large agreed, and who am I to deny the will of the group? Especially when an act of petty revenge, a little joke, might make the night entirely worthwhile?” Here, he gave his lapels one final tug. “And don’t _you_ worry, Jehan. You will not be neglected; I plan to bring a proper party favor for the two of us.” He gestured to his coffee table, on which sat a bottle of liqueur.

Still gazing at him from upside down, Prouvaire slowly removed the pipe from his mouth, a clump of ash falling onto his face. “That party was _today?"_

“It is New Year’s Eve, which is usually when New Year’s Eve parties take place, yes.”

Evidently surprised by this new information, Prouvaire sat up quickly, coughing as he was engulfed in a cloud of pipe smoke. Bahorel laughed, and strode over to help him to his feet. “Come now, Jehan. We must leave soon.”

* * *

  

“Aren’t you two going to get ready? You can’t go dressed like- Well. That is, we should be leaving soon. You know how Courfeyrac can get about punctuality!”

“Capital R, I do believe Joly nearly _insulted_ our clothing,” said Bossuet, blowing a smoke ring at the offender, who waved it away, frowning.

“Yes, I do believe he _did,_ ” Grantaire replied. He stretched out on the couch on which he and Bossuet were laying, resting his feet in the other’s lap. “It is quite shocking, the abuse we are willing to suffer at the hands of a friend. I suppose he thinks that _we_ think that the smoke and drink he shares with us is worth the permanent injury to our feelings, eh? Lesgle de Meaux, you must not tell him he is correct.”

“ _I only meant,”_ said Joly huffily, trying rather hard to be stern but wrinkling his nose in a way that was guaranteed to make Bossuet smile. “ _I only meant_ that you are wearing what you two _usually_ wear, and this party-"

“But Joly, how are our friends to recognize us if we have replaced our shabbiness with finery? Bad enough that you are wearing all this-“ Bossuet gestured at Joly’s gold-embroidered waistcoat and brand new cravat. “How are we supposed to compete? Why even bother? You should be relieved; we will only make you shine by comparison.”

“I _always_ dress well, thank you!” Joly said, with a bold, and failed, attempt at indignation. This time, Bossuet smiled at his pinked ears. “You should not tease me so, or I shall be forced to tease you back!” Joly nudged both of his friends over to squeeze himself on the sofa. “You would not want that!”

“Well, perhaps I _would_ -"

“Anyway,” said Grantaire, with an impressive eye roll. “You know how these parties usually go. A bourgeois party at a bourgeois café: The food looks better than it is, as do the women, and worst of all, the drinks are weak. Weak drinks, my friends! Could Courfeyrac have picked a more vile place? If only there was something we could do, or _bring_ , that will make the night worthwhile.” He looked at Joly pointedly, and then tilted his head to a nearby shelf, on which sat a bottle of fine brandy.

“My sister gave that to me for my birthday!”

“It’s been almost two months, and you still have not opened it. That is most unnatural.” 

“I was saving it,” said Joly. “For a special occasion!”

“A special occasion, indeed.” Grantaire stood up and stretched, and then turned to leave. “Yet another night spent with all of you; it is true that this occasion is not special. It is practically routine, and routines are certain to cause only unhappiness and ill health. It is, however, an emergency. Why are you still sitting; were you not worried about being late?”

Shaking his head, Bossuet stood as well. “Don’t mind him. If you don’t want to waste the brandy, then don’t! It’s true that we should leave soon, however, or risk facing Courfeyrac’s wrath. He’ll pout at us most fearsomely! Come on.”

After the other two had gone out onto the landing, Joly looked again at the bottle of brandy, biting his lip. Finally, he shrugged, and tucked the bottle into his coat before heading out the door. Surely there was no occasion more special than a night spent with friends, whatever Grantaire might say.

 

* * *

 

The café which was to serve as the friends’ entertainment for la Saint-Sylvestre was a stone’s throw away from the Hôtel de Ville, and was rather more upscale than the establishments they usually frequented. It may have catered almost exclusively to the bourgeoisie every other day of the year, but upon their arrival, Courfeyrac was immensely pleased with it all the same. The large main room was decorated lavishly for the new year, with drapery artfully hung on the walls from floor to ceiling, and tall standing candelabras placed at intervals around the perimeter. The attendees were primarily grouped around the two dozen tables on one side of the room, or the refreshments on the other, though there were a few couples who had already opted to dance towards the back.

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” said Courfeyrac to Combeferre, Enjolras, and Feuilly as they entered and began looking around for the rest of their friends. “I wonder if anyone else is here yet.”

Tall enough to see over most of the crowd, Enjolras tilted his head to a cluster of people to the left. “Bahorel and Prouvaire are there.”

“Are they?” Courfeyrac looked to where Enjolras had indicated. “Ah yes, there they-"

Bahorel had spotted them as well. Grinning, an eyebrow arched rakishly, he placed his hands on his hips and turned slowly to face them, frock coat open to display the full effect of his red-patterned waistcoat. Courfeyrac gaped at him; the garment was identical to his own down to the last stitch.

“Ah, I see,” said Jean Prouvaire, his gaze moving back and forth between the two. “I remember where I saw that fabric now, Bahorel. It _is_ rather nice.”

“Why-" Courfeyrac spluttered. “Why have you-"

“What’s all this?” said Bahorel. “Why are you so displeased? You were so excited when you showed us your new waistcoat, how could I live without owning one as well?”

While they were speaking, Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire had entered the café and made their way over to the rest of the group. Upon seeing Courfeyrac and Bahorel’s matching waistcoats, Grantaire laughed heartily at them, drawing the gaze of other partygoers around them, who giggled in turn. “Oh, excellent! Well, we’ll see who wears it best, eh?” He slapped Bahorel on the back.

“Why don’t we find a table, Courfeyrac?” said Feuilly, who appeared to be endeavoring to keep a straight face in light of the circumstances. “It would be good to reserve a few seats for all of us.”

“I’ll come too,” said Combeferre quickly, as Enjolras nodded as well.

“We’ll all come find you later, I suppose,” said Joly, as Bahorel, still grinning, turned to make his way to the refreshments. “Good luck with the seats!”

“How- how dare he?” Courfeyrac hissed as Feuilly steered him away. “How _dare_ he?”

 

* * *

Those people who had few friends in attendance or who were disinclined to dance had decided, as ever, to crowd around the refreshment table, reluctant to abandon it for the social uncertainty of anywhere else in the room. It was mostly Bahorel’s ability to part a crowd wherever he went that allowed him and Jean Prouvaire to reach the table before the rest of their party.

“What do we have here?” Bahorel examined the spread: A small amount of finger food, glasses of wine, some champagne to ring in the new year, and a bowl of English-style punch with bright red raspberries floating at the surface. He poured a bit of the punch into a glass and tasted it.

“What is your assessment?” Jean Prouvaire asked, glancing left and right before slipping a case of freshly rolled hashish cigarettes from inside his fraying purple frock coat. “Worth an actual serving?”

“Mostly juice,” Bahorel replied. “Though promising. Here we go.” He pulled out his smuggled liqueur and poured the entire bottle into the punchbowl.

Smiling vaguely, Prouvaire scooped up a glass of the punch for himself and took a sip. “Perfection!”

“Foresight proves an unlikely friend on occasion, does it not, Monsieur?” Bahorel asked their neighbor, a portly young man who had been eyeing them with disapproval for some time. “Can I tempt you with a glass?”

The young man reddened at being caught staring, but drew himself up slightly and frowned. “Certainly not.”

“Suit yourself,” said Bahorel, as Prouvaire lit a cigarette and shrugged at him. “I suppose a bit of fun cannot be had by all.”

 

* * *

“I cannot believe- _how_ could Bahorel do this to me?” Courfeyrac said, ignoring Enjolras’ little shake of the head as they rounded one side of the room with Feuilly and Combeferre, craning their necks to find an empty table.

“There is no need to be upset,” said Enjolras. “It is only a waistcoat.”

“If it is only a waistcoat, why don’t you switch with me?”

“No.”

“Look there,” said Combeferre, neatly interrupting them. “A table.”

The table was in the center of the room, difficult to see amidst the crush of other people. The four hurried forward, weaving through the crowd as quickly as they could, and managed to reach it before anyone else.

“Well, there’s one victory for the evening, I suppose,” said Combeferre dryly. He made to pull out a chair but ended up bumping the man behind him, who had his back turned. “Pardon- Oh.” He broke off, and Courfeyrac looked over in time to see Combeferre’s face fall. The man behind him, a fellow of average height, with wavy brown hair and a neatly trimmed moustache, turned around to glance at whoever had jostled him. Though Courfeyrac had not spent much time with him, he recognized him immediately; it was Marceau Guérin.

The silence that followed was perhaps the most uncomfortable any of them had ever experienced. Several of Marceau’s party had peered around their friend to see what the trouble was, and grew rather stern upon spotting Combeferre, who was red-faced and seemed unable to speak.

Courfeyrac cleared his throat, and stepped in for his friend. “Euh… Good evening. Happy New Year.” Marceau seemed to be rendered as mute as Combeferre; all he could do was nod in response.

After another strained pause, and plainly wishing he was anywhere else, Combeferre silently made to turn back around, but movement seemed to jar Marceau out of his own silence.

“One moment. Ah-" He made a gesture as if to take one of Combeferre’s hands, but checked himself, pressing his own together instead. “I was wondering if- if it would be all right if I could speak to you.” Marceau’s gaze flicked around the rest of the group before he added: “In private.”

Combeferre, too, looked back at his friends. Brow creased, Feuilly was glancing back and forth between them while Enjolras regarded Marceau with a touch of cold severity. All Courfeyrac could do was shrug. Seeming as though he would much rather refuse, Combeferre said resignedly, “Yes. All right.”

Courfeyrac bit his lip as he watched the pair go. “Nothing good can come of this. I was hoping that spending the evening with us would cheer him up.”

“Perhaps he will feel better if they actually have a talk,” Feuilly suggested, sitting down at their table.

“We can hope,” said Enjolras, though he appeared rather skeptical.

“I wish this didn’t have to happen _tonight_ of all nights,” said Courfeyrac dejectedly. “First Bahorel decides to _sabotage_ me, and now _this_.”

To his surprise, Feuilly suppressed a smile. “All may not be lost with regard to that first point.” He gave a little nod to the table behind where Courfeyrac was sitting. “Clearly there is still _someone_ who doesn’t care if your waistcoat has been copied.”

Curious, Courfeyrac turned his head in time to see a young woman sitting near them look away, and then glance back at him. She was quite pretty, he thought, with a lovely blue gown and elaborately styled hair.

He turned back to his friends. “I wouldn’t want to abandon you.”

“Nonsense,” said Feuilly. “You know Enjolras and I are perfectly fine with sitting quietly and reserving the table; don’t let us stop you. I can go and get us some drinks,” he added to Enjolras, who had failed to notice the lady in favor of looking to where Combeferre had gone. “The punch at these sort of parties is usually quite weak, as I understand. That should suit you, Enjolras. We’ll be fine here,” he added to Courfeyrac. “You go and enjoy yourself.”

“If you’re sure,” said Courfeyrac gratefully, rising to go and introduce himself to their neighbor. Perhaps a conversation with a charming young woman would be just the thing to get his mind off the evening’s setbacks. “I promise not to be gone long. Mind the two of _you_ don’t get yourself into trouble! We’ve had quite enough awkwardness for one night.”

 

* * *

 

“Look, you see—what did I tell you? Cheap wine, cheap champagne, a bowl of weak punch. The women-"

“-Have not had the chance to talk to you, as we have only just arrived,” said Bossuet. “The spread here is really not bad, all things considered.”

“And as to the first few complaints, Grantaire, I think I have a solution that will suit you.” Joly opened his coat to allow Grantaire and Bossuet to see the bottle of brandy he had been hiding. As conspiratorial as he tried to make his manner of doing so, he could not help grinning, and his two friends exclaimed in delight.

“Joly, you are the master of all parties. A true friend and hero, indeed!”

“I would say you’ve outdone yourself, Jolllly,” said Grantaire, taking the brandy from him. “But this is sorely needed.”

With difficulty, Grantaire set about removing the cork, tugging at it unsuccessfully. He scowled at the bottle. “Joly, I rescind any compliments to you. You have failed us grievously! What good is a bottle that can’t be opened?”

“There is no need to be unkind! It’s not my fault the cork is stuck.”

“Shall I smash it open?”

“No, no, give it here.” Bossuet took the bottle from Grantaire and held it firmly. “You pull the cork; I’ll hold.”

Joly raised his eyebrows as he watched them pull the bottle in opposite directions. The cork was firmly stuck in the neck, but finally it gave way, though a quarter of the bottle’s contents splashed onto the curtain draped behind the refreshment table.

Grinning triumphantly, Grantaire was poised to empty the remaining brandy into the punchbowl, but was interrupted by a portly young man standing nearby. “Pardon, you three. Someone has already-"

“Pardon?” said Grantaire, rounding on him. “This fellow does not know true heroics when he sees it! _Pardon_ , but do you wish to be the cause of this party’s demise? If not, do not stand in the way of its triumph!”

Highly affronted, the man stalked away, muttering angrily to himself. Now free from unwanted criticism, Grantaire poured out the rest of the brandy into the punch, and managed to stow the bottle away under the table just as Feuilly came up behind him.

“What are you three doing here? I expected to see you all socializing rather than hanging about near the wall.”

“The night is young!” said Bossuet lightly, not expecting Feuilly to approve of what they were actually doing around the punchbowl. “We are just taking stock of _all_ of the opportunities this party may offer.”

Feuilly shook his head good-naturedly and, after dipping into the punch and grabbing a glass of champagne, turned and walked back to his table.

Satisfied that their improvements to the drink had remained undetected, Bossuet smiled and served up glasses to his friends.

 

* * *

 

Against his better judgement, Combeferre had let himself be led to the very back of the room, into a corner away from the main crowd. Half-hidden by the drapery along the wall, Marceau crossed his arms and shrank back a little, shoulders hunched.

“You know I never meant this to happen, don’t you?” he said. Combeferre frowned at him; Marceau had never been good at arguing, had never even enjoyed a good debate. “Nor did I _want_ it to happen. My mother-"

“Your _mother_ should never have dictated your actions.”

“She threatened to cut me off.”

“She would not have,” said Combeferre sharply. The past week had been the most miserable of his life, and try as he might, he could not stop himself from allowing every angry thought he had been brooding over to burst out of him. “Who on earth would she have expected you to suddenly marry? She would not have left you without your future career—it is the only way to provide for the both of you. Surely you can see it for what it is: A completely _empty_ threat! We might have carried on; it is not as though she was supposed to find out in the first place. We-" He broke off at Marceau’s hurt expression, guilt twisting inside of him. “Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? It happened and it is over. If you’ll excuse me-"

But as Combeferre turned to rejoin his friends, wanting nothing more than to be as far away as possible, Marceau touched him on the shoulder, and he stopped to look back.

Marceau bit his lip. “I still care about you. I do hope you know that.”

Almost instantaneously, Combeferre’s resolve dissipated despite himself. He stood still, at a loss for what to say, but Marceau found the proper words for him: “I wish there was some way to resolve this.”

 

* * *

 

“Well, Mademoiselle Chapin. Is this party to your liking?” Courfeyrac smiled at his new acquaintance; there were few things more enjoyable than getting to know someone new. “There is a good number of people here!”

“Oh, yes. There certainly is. If I’m honest though,” said the young woman, ducking her head slightly. “I would rather be home reading. Ah-“ Her cheeks pinked, as though she regretted admitting this. Not for the first time, Courfeyrac was struck suddenly by what a shame it was that young women frequently felt as though they ought to hide their true interests from young men, as something of which to be ashamed. Luckily for Mademoiselle Chapin, Courfeyrac was not uninterested in the subject in the slightest.

“Would you? If I may ask: What do you like to read?” As she still seemed reluctant to continue the subject, Courfeyrac added a bit more gently: “I assure you, Mademoiselle, if anyone’s library is deserving of judgement, it is certainly mine!”

The young woman smiled at this, and he was struck by the lovely color of her eyes: A deep, warm brown.

“Well, it is just that I managed to find a copy of _The Castle of Wolfenbach_ yesterday-"

“Really!” said Courfeyrac, his loud interjection making the lady jump. “I’m sorry! It’s only I’ve been anxious to read it myself, but I’ve yet to find a decent translation! Where did you manage-"

“Oh, it’s not a translation,” said Mademoiselle Chapin. She leaned forward, all shyness now fallen away in eagerness to discuss her book. “It’s in English. I don’t speak the language, but I can read it tolerably well. I admit, I was awake half the night reading!”

Courfeyrac grinned. “And how are you finding it?”

“It’s just _dreadful! Wonderfully_ dreadful, I mean! I do love a story with such _suspense_ and strange happenings and a healthy threat of ghosts. Even after I had set it down, every little creak and bump in my flat made me jump; I just loved it! I am only through the first volume, and was planning on reading the second tonight.” All of this burst from her in a rush of words, and though she seemed to blush at herself, she also couldn’t seem to stop. “None of my friends seem to enjoy Gothic novels—or at least none _admit_ it. Have you read many? Do you have a favorite?”

Finding her enthusiasm for the subject entirely charming, Courfeyrac leaned forward eagerly as well. “I do! Half my library is filled with the genre. Have you read _The Monk_?”

It was obvious that she had, because Mademoiselle Chapin smiled yet wider and opened her mouth to exclaim on it, but a raspy voice cut in: “Ah, _The Monk._ Courfeyrac, I do not know why you read such trash, nor why you would bother such a lovely woman with talk of it.” 

Before Courfeyrac could stop him, Grantaire slid into the empty chair to his right and gave Mademoiselle Chapin a yellow-toothed grin. “Good evening.”

After stammering out a response, Mademoiselle Chapin turned to Courfeyrac questioningly, but all he could do was give her an apologetic look and, turning to Grantaire, hiss in an undertone, “ _What are you doing?”_

“I’m speaking to the most beautiful woman in the room. Surely that is allowed.” Grantaire cast Courfeyrac a little smirk before turning back to Mademoiselle Chapin. “Well, Mademoiselle. Is this party to your liking?”

 

* * *

 

Settled back in his chair with his glass of champagne, Feuilly leisurely gazed around the room. Parties like this were never really of interest to him. He would of course attend if his friends were, but he much preferred a quiet table at a café to huge crowds of people. He supposed he could not complain, however; the champagne was quite good, a rare treat, and watching the people around him was always rather fun. He was also pleased that his other friends had gone off to seek their own entertainment and left him and Enjolras at the table. Enjolras was always good company in situations like this; they could chat, or enjoy a comfortable silence while nursing their drinks, without anyone poking and prodding them to dance or strike up conversation with strangers. 

He looked over at his companion fondly. Enjolras was leaning slightly in his chair, tongue poking out, busily fishing raspberries out of the bottom of his nearly empty glass. Feuilly could not suppress a smile. “You like raspberries, don’t you?”

Enjolras raised his eyes to the other, the tip of his tongue still out, and Feuilly was surprised to see that his gaze was quite unfocused. “Citizen Feu- _Fwee?”_

Startled, Feuilly eyed his friend. “Enjolras?”

“Citizen _Fwee_ ,” said Enjolras again, succeeding in retrieving a raspberry and, obviously exceedingly pleased, popped it on the tip of his finger. “Citizen _Fwee_ , I always used to do this as a child.” He wiggled his finger at Feuilly, who gaped at him. “My mother and I would get a whole basket of rasp- _rasp-perries_ and put them on our fingers and eat them.” He demonstrated this, juice dribbling down his hand. “But we- we do not do that anymore. I am not a child and my mother is dead.”

“Oh. Enjolras, I-"

“Would you like to try, Citizen _Fwee?”_ Enjolras smiled and held out his glass, tipping it to emphasize the remaining soggy raspberries. 

“Euh, yes. I do.” Feuilly took the glass and gave the contents a sniff, and then a sip. It was rather difficult to tell for all the sweetness, but under the taste of sugary juice and fruit, he detected rather a lot of alcohol. “Oh. Enjolras, I think I’ve made a mistake. This punch is not as weak as I thought. You shouldn’t drink-"

“ _Nonsense_ , Friend _Fwee_ ,” said Enjolras, taking his glass back and standing up. He wobbled. “I feel per- perf- _per-flect-ly_ fine and very _happy._ And besides,” he lowered his voice to a stage whisper, “I really _do_ like sweet foods.”

“I know, but- Enjolras, _wait!”_ But Enjolras had turned and tottered off to the punch bowl for a refill. “Oh _no._ ”

 

* * *

 

“What do you think they’re saying to each other?” Joly whispered, giggling into his glass of punch. It was a testament to the strength of the brandy they had added that Joly was already affected, Bossuet noticed with satisfaction.

The pair had found a little corner which afforded them a view of the tables and a portion of the dance floor. Here, they had taken to surveying the crowd, and spying on Courfeyrac and Grantaire.

“Oh, who knows?” Bossuet affected a voice slightly higher than his own, and with a faint Provençal accent. “‘Mademoiselle, the candles about the room pale in comparison to the brightness of your eyes. Won’t you please dance with me, unworthy though I am to be seen in your radiant company?’” Here, Bossuet lowered his voice to something closer to Grantaire’s rasp. “‘Mademoiselle, do not listen to this fool. The candles are dull and the party is disappointing. We have few options for partners tonight, so instead you should dance with me.’”

“‘No, indeed!’” Joly said, attempting a high-pitched female tone, his voice shaking with suppressed laughter. He spilled a bit of punch over himself. “‘No, you are both far too silly for me! I would much prefer that bald fellow there across the room! He seems the obvious choice.’”

“How kind! She is out of luck, however, if she wishes for someone _less_ silly.” Smiling, Bossuet shifted his gaze around the room, looking to see where their other friends had gone. After a moment, he spotted Combeferre across the room, wrapped in an embrace with another man, and probably not as well-hidden as he would have liked. 

“Now _there_ is something I thought I’d never see.” Bossuet nudged Joly, causing him to spill more punch on himself, and nodded at the pair. “Combeferre seems to be enjoying himself against all odds.”

“Oh dear!”

“Indeed. Say, isn’t that what’s-his-name?”

“Guérin? Our classmate? Combeferre’s and mine, I mean. _You_ don’t go to class.”

“ _Me,_ a student at the medical school? God forbid it. Can you imagine?” Bossuet took a gulp of punch and squinted across the room; everything was rather out of focus. “But yes, that’s the man. Didn’t _you_ have something to do with that?”

“Oh, yes.” Joly waved a hand, tipping against Bossuet’s shoulder. “They had been making eyes at each other for ages and _ages_ and neither would do anything about it. It seemed only _logical_ to invite Guérin to share our cadaver—during dissections, you know. That was that, apparently. I admit, I’m quite proud. Perhaps I should set up a match-making service. I really _do_ think I would be good at it. I could charge a small fee; we could make a decent living off of it, Bossuet. Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yes. But this all happened over a year ago—I thought things had ended between them last week. At least, things were _suspiciously_ _awkward_ while we were extracting our new corpse’s lung-"

“It doesn’t look like things have ended to me,” Bossuet interrupted, watching Marceau wind his fingers in Combeferre’s hair. “Should we, euh- should we do something?”

“Perhaps they’ve worked things out?” said Joly tentatively. “Maybe? We could ask Courfeyrac; he might know.”

“And interrupt another of our friend’s liaisons? No, thank you.” But Joly was looking rather anxious at this point, and so Bossuet gave in immediately. “Oh, all right then.”

They made their way over to where Courfeyrac and Grantaire were vying for the attentions of the very bewildered young woman, and Bossuet cleared his throat behind them. Already agitated, Courfeyrac looked up at the pair of them. “No! Not you, too!”

“Not us!” said Joly, and he pointed across the room at Combeferre.

Courfeyrac turned and, upon seeing what Combeferre was up to, buried his face in his hands. “Oh, _hell!”_

 

* * *

 

“Oh, I am out of lucifers,” said Jean Prouvaire. With great effort, as if his hand had grown unnaturally heavy, he gestured at the empty matchbox in dismay. “I am out of lucifers and we still have two more cigarettes. That is- that is one for each of us. It would have been perfect equality, but we are thwarted, Bahorel. Thwarted!”

Bahorel laughed so loudly that some of the other people standing next to their wall sidled away nervously. “A tragedy indeed.”

He looked around, though it made his head swim, for some answer to their predicament. His gaze fell upon a candelabra nearby, and he grabbed it, turning the flames on Prouvaire as though he were about to run him through with a trident.

A slow array of emotion crossed Prouvaire’s face, from grief to surprise and finally to joy. “Bahorel, you are the mightiest genius of men. What would I do without you?” He lit his last cigarette on the candelabra.

“You would exist in a state of excess sobriety,” Bahorel answered, lighting his own and then setting the candelabra upright again, though one foot was caught on the curtain behind the refreshment table, rendering it crooked. “And that would be the _real_ tragedy.”

 

* * *

 

“My friends won’t miss me if I leave. Will yours?” Marceau broke off from kissing Combeferre to look at him tenderly. “My place is not far from here, you know. We- we could slip out.”

Combeferre looked over his shoulder to determine the whereabouts of his friends, and Marceau took the opportunity to trail little kisses over his cheek. Courfeyrac, Grantaire, Joly, and Bossuet were gathered around a table with a young woman, engrossed in speaking to each other. A short distance away, Feuilly and Enjolras were sitting together companionably. Near the refreshment table, Jean Prouvaire and Bahorel were hunched over with laughter. None seemed at all concerned with Combeferre or what he was doing; it was the perfect opportunity to duck out of the party.

Faced with Combeferre’s silence, Marceau added haltingly, “It is perfectly fine if you don’t want-"

“No,” said Combeferre earnestly. “No, I _do_ want to go with you.”

A smile dawned on Marceau’s face for the first time that evening, and he grasped Combeferre by the lapels to tug him into an embrace. Happier than he had been in days, Combeferre gave the other a playful little shove further back into the corner and, both of them laughing, Marceau pulled him along for another kiss. The drapery alongside the wall shifted with the pair of them.

Some distance up the room, the tilted candelabra behind the refreshment table tipped further and fell. The curtains, still damp from Joly’s spilled brandy, immediately went up in flames.

 

* * *

 

Feuilly was much too fascinated with Enjolras’ behavior to notice anything else was amiss. After successfully persuading Enjolras not to drink any more punch, he had set aside his own glass toobserve his friend. Enjolras was partially slumped over the table, still keen on the raspberries at the bottom of his glass, though his dexterity had deteriorated enough that procuring them seemed nearly impossible.

“Perhaps I ought to take you home,” said Feuilly, frowning as Enjolras let out a quiet noise of irritation at his inability to get at the fruit. “You should really be in bed. Come, we are not partygoers anyway; the others will understand if we leave.”

None of this seemed to register to Enjolras. He sat back in his seat and pulled a face of profound despair. “There are _none_. There are no _rass-berries_ left. This is the worst thing that could have happened.”

As if on cue, someone behind Enjolras screamed, and Feuilly looked up to see the hangings on the wall engulfed in flames, which climbed higher and higher. People were crying out, running, knocking over tables and chairs in panic to get out of the café. 

Feuilly leapt from his seat, being hit and jostled by people rushing past him, looking about for the rest of his friends. Jean Prouvaire and Bahorel had upended the refreshment table in their haste to get away from the fire, but the bowl of punch had spilt over the flames and, far from putting them out, only seemed to give them more fuel. Courfeyrac had abandoned those closer to the door in favor of dashing across the room to pull Combeferre and his friend from the curtains and drag them both to the exit, leaving a smirking Grantaire to escort the young lady with whom they had been speaking out of the building. Joly and Bossuet followed him close behind.

Quickly getting over his initial shock, Feuilly grabbed Enjolras by the arm and attempted to pull him to his feet. Still fixated on his missing raspberries and apparently completely unaware of the chaos around him, Enjolras would not budge. In a desperate effort to get his friend out of danger, Feuilly smacked the glass from his hands and, ignoring the hurt look he got for this, yelled over the din, “Come, Enjolras, _come!_ Get up—there’s _fire-"_

“Friend _Fwee_ ,” cried Enjolras, pulling Feuilly down to his eye level by the sleeve. “I can smell something cooking.”

 

* * *

 

The shellshocked silence amongst the group as they trailed back to Courfeyrac’s flat was all-consuming, but Courfeyrac found himself using the opportunity to attempt to piece the events of the night together. Combeferre, whose attitude exuded only sullen irritation, walked arm-in-arm with him as they crossed Pont Notre-Dame. Ahead of them Enjolras, having refused all help offered him, was walking alone. He held his head up, back straight, as though to prove he did not need assistance, though his path weaved back and forth slightly, and he stumbled more than once. The rest of their friends straggled behind.

“That was-" said Courfeyrac finally, and mostly to himself. “That was- was _not_ the night I had expected.”

Combeferre made a noncommittal noise at his side.

“All I wanted,” Courfeyrac continued. “Was a night of diversion. _Diversion!_ It is la Saint-Sylvestre—a time to celebrate. Instead we burnt down a café.”

“A bourgeois café.” Combeferre gave a humorless smile. “We _have_ pledged to dismantle the current political and social-"

“Oh! Hush, _please!”_

Behind them, Bahorel struck up a lewd song, which Prouvaire quickly joined. Courfeyrac’s head throbbed.

“Well, we didn’t burn down the _entire_ café,” said Combeferre, in what Courfeyrac supposed was an attempt at a bracing tone. “We singed one wall. And perhaps a bit of the ceiling. It- it was bad, but it might have been much worse. No one was injured.”

“You are not making me feel any better about- Enjolras?”

Enjolras had halted abruptly, which allowed the other two to catch up to him. They peered around him curiously. Enjolras’ brows were furrowed, eyes narrowed and lips pressed into a thin line, as though he was contemplating something deeply confusing and unpleasant. Combeferre exchanged a befuddled glance with Courfeyrac before saying, “Enjolras, is there something-"

He did not have time to finish his query. As though he had made a decision, Enjolras turned suddenly, marched over to the side of the bridge, and was sick over the balustrade.

“Oh dear,” said Courfeyrac, as Combeferre rushed over to help. From somewhere behind the three, Bahorel caught sight of what was happening, and cheered.

As Enjolras bent over the side of the bridge, Courfeyrac’s borrowed hat slipped from his head and fluttered down into the darkness.

 

* * *

 

“There you are,” said Courfeyrac as kindly as he could manage, drawing the covers of his bed around Enjolras’ shoulders and tucking them around his friend. “Comfortable enough?”

“Mmph.”

“Hmm. Well, I am sorry to say that however terrible you feel right now, you will feel ten times as bad tomorrow morning. You may stay here, of course, until you are better. Oh, and before I forget-“ Courfeyrac reached under the bed to draw out the chamberpot and set it within Enjolras’ reach. “Whatever you do with that, mind you aim.”

Enjolras grimaced and, turning his face into the pillows, muttered something.

“I didn’t catch that.” Courfeyrac perched himself on the edge of the bed.

“Mm- I’m sorry.”

“About what?”

“Your hat.”

This was the last thing Courfeyrac was expecting from Enjolras at such a time, and the mixture of nausea and contrition on his face made Courfeyrac laugh. “Not at all, my dear fellow. Don’t worry about that; it was bound to be lost sooner or later. Now, do try to get some rest.” He smoothed the covers one last time before quitting the bedroom, closing the door behind himself.

His friends were grouped around his sitting room, in chairs or on the floor. Courfeyrac sighed heavily and leaned against the back of the sofa. “I really don’t understand how Enjolras became that ill from a glass or two of punch.”

“Oh!” Bossuet exclaimed, and then attempted an expression of innocence when Courfeyrac turned to him for an explanation. “Well, euh. Joly, Grantaire, and I might have added some additional strength to the punch-"

“Did you? Great minds think alike!” said Bahorel. “Jehan and I did as well. Though admittedly we ended up amusing ourselves with other substances instead.”

“You what?” Courfeyrac walked around to the front of the sofa to stare at his friends. “You, all of you, added extra strength to the punch?”

“I did not,” said Combeferre flatly as Feuilly, sitting next to him on the couch, stared blankly at the rest of his friends, having realized the unwitting hand he had played in Enjolras’ condition.

As it was, Courfeyrac was barely suppressing his vexation at such a disappointing night but was prepared, even in light of this new information, to drop the entire subject. He would have succeeded, if it hadn’t been for Bahorel grinning at him.

“Was it so much to ask,” cried Courfeyrac, throwing his hands up in the air. “To have one— _only one_ —pleasant night out for all of us? _One_ night: This is all I asked! Is it a crime to want to ring in the new year with my dearest friends? It seems to be, for I am being punished for it! You-" He turned angrily to the half of the group who had doctored the punch. “In future, perhaps it would be wise to _taste_ a drink before deciding to add any additional strength to it, lest we end up _poisoning_ our friends. _You-"_ He turned now to Combeferre, who raised his eyebrows at him. “For heaven’s sake, if someone is unwilling to fight for you in even the smallest instance, they are not worth being upset over! In fact, you are _well shot of him._ And you- you-" Courfeyrac had at last turned to Bahorel and, past coherency, plucked at his own waistcoat, scowling ferociously. _“How dare you?”_

Bahorel merely grinned wider as Courfeyrac broke off, breathing heavily. Joly stared at his feet. No one else dared say anything.

Already feeling guilty from his outburst, Courfeyrac turned to Combeferre, to apologize to him at least, but Combeferre merely looked at him, gave a little rueful smile, and patted the space on the sofa next to him. Courfeyrac sank down onto it gratefully.

Somewhere on a nearby street, a church clock struck midnight.


End file.
